


a secret mauled and mangled

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Play, Daddy Issues, F/M, First Time, Jyn is bisexual, Smut, Some angst, but is only sexing Krennic in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7328311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She’s not supposed to want this for so many damned reasons. She wants it so badly.</i>
</p><p>Jyn Erso gatecrashes an Imperial function for some light stealing. She is caught in the act. Oh noes, what will she doooo?</p>
            </blockquote>





	a secret mauled and mangled

**Author's Note:**

> So there was [this pic of Ben Mendelsohn](http://ennaih.tumblr.com/post/145278689625/this-is-it-onstraysod) and it made me think of a line in a Kylux fic that I can’t find now, argh, even though seven pages of bookmarked fic, of how Hux splits open his own lip when he looks at Ren. And then onstraysod told me of the fan theory that Mads Mikkelsen’s character, Jyn Erso’s dad, may be the designer of the Death Star. All these things and then some collided in my head. And yes, half of this was written before the release of the character details, before we knew about Galen Erso.
> 
> Title from _Do You Love Me (Part 2)_ by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds cos really, look at that pic.

She’s not supposed to be here. But then she rarely is where she’s meant to be. This is a talent she likes to cultivate, a special little skill her father never taught her.

Jyn Erso smiles as one more diplomat takes a glass of Corellian brandy from her serving tray. The stupid skirt itches where the hem catches the back of her thigh, and she knows damned well that if this wasn’t a rarified Imperial function, she probably would have been groped five times by now. But no, the officers and senators are on their best behaviour, perhaps slightly worried and distracted by the guest of honour.

Galen Erso sits up at the long table flanked by so many Imperial officers. All human. You’d think the galaxy was populated entirely by humans if this banquet hall was any indication. Never mind the many species of sentient creatures out there, slaughtered across the systems in the name of racial purity, in the name of whatever the fuck the Empire is on about now. 

Her thoughts keep skittering away from him even though he is the only reason she’s here. She feels herself doing it, has to catch her thoughts and wrest them back to him. Conversations and cutlery clinking around her, she moves between the tables, between the kitchen and the main area. Smiles when she’s meant to, takes note of this wallet and that chrono, parsing the talk for information to file away. And she keeps forgetting why she’s here.

Her father is being feted by the Empire for his grand design. It’ll revolutionise the galaxy, seal Imperial control. Sure, they have their mysterious wizards and dark mechanical knights. But this thing he thought up for them has nothing to do with magical powers. This thing is what he made after she left his house and left his name.

She’s not his daughter anymore, hasn’t been for a very long time. But every time her gaze catches up there where the light glints on his faded hair, something hurts in her chest. It shouldn’t matter but it does. He hasn’t changed at all but somehow she knows he’s a little scared. Something about the way he looks at the generals and commanders sitting on either side of him, something about the way he looks around at all the finery and insignia they’ve displayed for him. He knows he’s one more weapon in their arsenal, one more agent of destruction.

And she hates him for it. It’s a raw uncomplicated emotion, one she clings to and wants to have suffuse her whole body. It would be a noble thing to be here for an assassination, even a beautiful poetic thing because who should it be but her? Family. His first and best creation. 

The prototype.

She bumps into a chair, startled out of her muddled thoughts, and as she steadies herself, realises she’s been seen. From the high table, one in the line of uniforms. She tries to look charmingly apologetic, drops a silly little curtsey and hurries away. She is after all just a server at a grand event, a little nobody who goes home every night to a sweet little apartment she shares probably with her parents, maybe engaged to some nice boy with kind eyes.

Jyn Erso is none of those things.

In the controlled chaos of the kitchen, she tugs the skirt hem lower, twisting a little in the confines of the frilly shirt. It’s such a ridiculous outfit, too short and fluffy in the skirt, too tight around the chest, some Old Republic male fantasy. Sarua said as much when Jyn had emerged from her room, thoroughly uncomfortable. Sarua had stared for a long horrified moment, her fine fuchsia hair quivering around her face, and then burst into scandalised laughter. Jyn had to roll her eyes and say “What?” several indignant times before her housemate had calmed down enough to explain about Old Republic sexual rituals, what little she knew of them.

Jyn had been even more disgusted.

Now she hoists up the laden tray and backs out through the swinging kitchen door. The mains are nearly all served. Soon she’ll be able to duck out and do a bit of judicious exploring, make this night more profitable than a few painful glimpses of a father she’d long since disowned. 

She feels off balance without Sarua, that’s what it is. They’ve worked rooms like this so often lately Jyn’s gotten used to that sense of secret companionship. Most time it’s even fun, being able to glance across a crowded cantina or gamehall to see familiar fuchsia hair and a warm secret smile. She had been on her own so long that learning to be with someone, a partner in illicit activity, someone off the streets just like her, had taken some adjustment. But then Sarua was like that. She had known very quick that Jyn would be a good partner, that they could have each other’s backs in whatever grimy central planet city, picking pockets, running cons, whatever they needed to get by, short of selling their bodies.

That was the line they both drew for themselves. And so far it had held. Skilled enough, wily enough, they had made the sporadic credits last, enough to rent a few rooms in the more xeno-friendly quarter of this particular city from a shy chubby landlord with a short chin frond of tentacles. That’s another thing making her uncomfortable, Jyn realises. She likes it so much better in the cantinas and bars where she is just one more species among many, one more colour among many, one more shape in the loud jostling crowd of amiable rudeness. All this enforced civility and uniformity of shape creeps her out.

When the mains are served, the speeches begin. The timing seems utterly stupid but then she supposes they’re all captive to their plates now. May as well drone at them. So when the old white man next to her father stands up and begins extolling the virtues of the Empire, Jyn takes the opportunity to vanish from the ranks of servers lined up against the white walls. Of course she’s looking for a ‘fresher, no other reason to be trying doorknobs and scanning artworks with a calculating eye down the corridors of Old Republic luxury. There may be neon and durasteel twisted skyscrapers beyond the draped windows, speeders and hovercraft and alien species in the streets outside this great Imperial building. But in here it is all gorgeous old fabrics, and furniture made from off-planet wood glossed to fake reproductions of millennia-dead cultures. She can only take small valuable things, not too obscure that they’d be noticed in the flea markets and shady pawn shops. 

In a warm faintly golden room lined with fragrant wood, antique ornaments and so many books -- she remembers that word from her father’s study -- Jyn kneels on the worn carpet and tries to work out how the hell one opens an Old Republic safe. Her head is full of noise, registering the distant drone of the Imperial speech, skittering around the image of her father listening and trying not to look afraid. Sarua keeps slipping around her thoughts. Sarua with her soft stubby hands and the three fingers she combs through Jyn’s hair. Sarua talking about her family, her teacher parents and how they’d had a little school on her home planet before the Empire swooped down. The smell of Sarua’s fuchsia hair as it floated against Jyn’s face in passing. They’re best friends and accomplices, they’re all each other have right now. How could she possibly want for more?

“It turns the other way.”

If she was in her usual outfit, the one Sarua calls streetfighter chic, she’d be up and across the room, knife already at his throat. But this outfit calls for a different reaction. So she plays it. Bounces up, all shocked wide eyes and round red mouth, skirt hem flipping up on her thighs. “Oh!”

And realises he’s not fooled at all. 

It’s the uniform from the high table, the one who had noticed her. Then he had looked at her expressionless, a tapering creased face with thin mouth and steely eyes. She had looked at his white uniform, the row of insignia, and thought how very ridiculous his white cape was.

Now his head is inclined a little and he’s watching her with this very small very amused smile, eyes crinkled and clear grey blue in the dim library glow. Jyn feels a wary thrill. This one’s dangerous. This one she’s going to have to play carefully. She has one knife very far away in the sole of her shoe, hadn’t thought she’d need anything more on this little--

His lip is cut. Right in the centre of his lower lip. She looks at it and then looks at his eyes, her mind racing, suddenly so very confused and warm with it. “What did you say?”

His brows quirk in a curiously expressive face. He’s unarmed, black gloved hands clasped neatly before the silver belt. “The Old Republic safe. Interesting target.”

“Really,” she says absently, staring again. His mouth is slim and just that little bit crooked, the upper lip sitting in a slightly odd curve atop the lower cut right there. Who bit his lip? How? Did he ask them to? Why is she even thinking this, good grief. 

His eyes narrow a little on her, maybe reading her distraction too well. And she remembers her role, steps forward with the treacherous sensation that she’s not entirely disliking it this time. It’s worked before, play the dumb little sex doll they expect when they see her ripe red mouth and wide hazel eyes, flirt and tease her way clear to the nearest exit. This one might be different but she’s going to try it anyway.

“I got lost,” she says, smiling just enough, as she closes the distance between them.

“Is that right?” He’s really not fooled. But now she’s close enough to touch her fingertips to the official insignia on his chest. His eyes flick down to them and then back to her face, deeply curious. And Jyn thinks she’s going mad because she can’t stop looking at that cut.

“What happened to your lip?” she asks. It comes out too breathless. 

He quirks a brow, his face remarkably expressive and humorous. “Attacked by a thieving server.”

She laughs, startling herself. Oh god it’s all wrong, she’s all wrong. She’s supposed to be playing him, not getting distracted and confused and amused. His face softens a little in response, blue grey eyes dropping to her mouth. This close, he smells of a faint expensive scent, of a world she left a long time ago, the adult version of a world she never knew. She can’t want this, this is not the life or the person she wants.

Who the fuck has ever cared what she wants?

Jyn loses her mind and kisses him. Reckless and curious, wanting to taste blood and flesh and him. He’s startled for one brief second, then shoves her up against a bookcase, and kisses her back, vicious and open-mouthed. She wants his tongue, she realises suddenly, she wants more than that. His lip splits open and she gets that taste of blood. It makes her wild, her hands thrust into his hair, her tongue wet and coppery into his mouth. And this guy all regimented and uniformed with this stupid fucking cape gets one hand in her hair, pulls her head back to open her mouth to him, and reaches down with his other hand, takes hold of her cunt. She flinches into his hold, suddenly aware she’s wet and probably has been wet since she saw his lip.

He pulls back just enough that they can look at each other. His hair is all dishevelled from her hands, eyes intense, breath ragged, his mouth like a wound. As she stares at him, mesmerised, he pushes her underwear aside, slides two gloved fingers along the wet seam of her sex, and, watching her watch him, slowly deliberately licks the cut in his lip. That groan is her, from her throat, as the sight of him makes her cunt clench like a mouth strong and toothed, raw fierce lust. She sinks back against the book spines, overwhelmed even as her eyes fix hungrily on his face. She’s not supposed to want this for so many damned reasons. She wants it so badly.

“Who sent you?” He has the colour of arousal high on his cheekbones but his eyes are clear and his tone cool. Jyn feels even wilder in response, straightening up, delirious with the impossible trap she’s in.

“Why don’t you fuck the answer out of me?”

He breathes in sharply, bright with appreciation at her audacity. “I could, could I?”

She smirks at him, thrilling and flirtatious. “If you’re able.”

He grins, not about to give into that transparency. Then flicks his eyes down and back up again. “Show me your cunt.”

That word and the female power of it. Sarua had told her that too, how men had named and feared and hated and fucked that word. Sarua had made her, it seemed. Before, Jyn had been a sort of space urchin, almost entirely savage and shorn of all her father’s teaching and ideas. Sarua had brought her back to a semblance of humanity, shown her that ideas did not always destroy, that their power could be remade and reclaimed for different purposes. 

Now, here with this man, with her father a few corridors away, Jyn feels almost entirely savage again, wanting to fuck instead of fight, wanting to take power from this man. And the way she does it is to spread her legs, letting his gloved hand slide along her thigh, sleek soft leather against warm skin. He breathes in harder, inclines his head beside hers, watching as she lifts the silly frothy skirt, pulls it back until they can both see the curve of her sex modestly contained in her sober black underwear. Can he smell her, does he know how incredibly wet she is right now, breathing in the scent of his Imperial luxury?

She watches his intent face, sees him make a small sound in his throat as he touches the back of his black gloved hand against the soaked black curve of her covered sex. He presses the back of his knuckles down and into her, looks quick at her face when she moans and presses down on his hand because he’s right on the hungry ache of her cunt. 

“Someone could walk in right now,” he says, ragged edges to his voice. “Find us like this. I could fuck you right here.”

She moans, bracing herself against the bookcase, shameless now with the knowledge that he wants this as much as she does. “You could,” she agrees on a wanton sound, looking up at him like any willing coquette, all hungry eyes and kissable mouth.

“Or” -- he leans in, taking up all her air and space, glittering blue -- “I could take you out there and fuck you in front of everyone.”

In front of her father. 

She lunges, grabs him with mouth and hands and her legs snaking around his thighs. His cock rams up against her, first through the barrier of fabric and then after a short desperate struggle of silver belt and fasteners, then into and up inside her, tearing groans from them both because she’s so tight and wet and he’s that hard and full inside her. He holds the side of her face, something vulnerable and beautiful about his eyes as they look at each other, and she turns her cheek into his leather grip, seeking to taste, seeking a reaction from him. His teeth bare on a gasp, he pushes his gloved thumb into her wet mouth, and she clenches her cunt around his cock because she can, she can make him do what she wants. 

He groans and starts to fuck her, hard between his clothed body and the ridged spines of the books, faster and harder as she clutches at his back under the gloriously stupid cape, as she hitches herself higher on his cock and bites into his shoulder, into the Imperial cape. He pulls back a little and pulls open her shirt, scattering a few buttons, but neither of them care because she arches, pushing her bare pink nipples up for his gaze and his sharp wet mouth. He drags his lips over her tender flesh, catching and bleeding a little across her skin, marking her for now. She pulls his face up to hers, cool air on her nipples now, and he braces an arm by her head to fuck her harder. It’s exactly what she wants, more of his cock, unabashed and uncivilised. 

The books rattle in the case, ornaments moving on the shelves, she’s making shocking little cries with every sharp jolt of his hips against hers. Everyone will hear them, know exactly what they’re doing from the sounds she’s making, the rhythm and carnal plea of her voice in the rich golden glow of the library. She can’t see, doesn’t want to see, only needs the darkness of flesh and fuck and breath, wants only to come and come and come. It’s colours inside her head, warmth spilling all through her nerves, bliss breaking her apart and reforming her in so much pleasure.

He doesn’t come inside her. Pulls out fast, cups his hand around the red glistening head of his cock, and catches his come on sleek black leather. It should chill her, this reminder of Imperial self-control, but it’s far far too late for that. He glances at her face but she’s already got hold of his gloved hand, bringing it to her mouth. Not reckless enough to risk a life but reckless enough for this, to lick Imperial come from a hand of black leather as he watches her, breathing hard but regaining cool self-satisfied assurance. She finds she doesn’t mind that so much, liking the depraved taste of warm leather and the sharp secret of him. He’s had those fingers inside her cunt, inside her mouth, she’s had more of him than he could ever have of her.

When she lets go of his hand, he gives her a small bright smile. They disengage, the air hot around them as they readjust their clothes. She’s so wet still, feeling deliciously used, nipples cold as she pulls her shirt closed. So what if she walks out of here with the buttons missing, looking somewhat mauled? Let anyone think what they want, she’ll disappear into the city and no one will ever know. A thought touching her, Jyn glances over at the man she’s just fucked, this man of the Empire.

“What are you going to do when you’ve destroyed the galaxy?” Her tone is level, she really does want to know. “What will there be left to rule?”

He buckles the silver belt, setting it in place before he looks back at her. Self-contained again, the immaculate unfuckable Imperial official. But his hair flops over his brow and his eyes have that mercurial glitter of blue grey. “There will always be a new Order.”

And she knows. She knows she wants nothing of this world, doesn’t want him, her father, or this life hurtling towards death and destruction. If it took one vicious heterosexual fuck to convince her, so be it.

She’s nearly at the door when he speaks again. “Take that with you.”

Startled, she glances back and he’s looking towards the shelves of ornaments, at an Old Republic relic, some sort kewpie doll with porcelain skin and a rosebud mouth. Jyn’s temper sparks. “Why? Payment for services rendered?”

Her hand is on the doorknob, she could leave any moment. But she waits to see him smile and reply, “No. But you’ll need to show something for today.”

He thinks she’s some street urchin in a gang of thieves. And that realisation of how far she’s come reminds her of the person she is now, the person she loves now. She takes the doll, it’s small enough to conceal in her coat back at the staff quarters, and he’s right. It will earn her a fair few credits in the pawn shop.

“Would you like me to pass a message to your father?”

Her gaze snaps to him, heart thundering in her chest. But he’s adjusting his cuffs, his expression mild and composed, standing there in the middle of the library with the cape hanging precisely from his shoulders to just above the carpet. Jyn’s mind roars and races through all the ghastly scenarios of capture and trial, of imprisonment and execution, of being returned to her father like some goddamned spoil of war. 

But then he looks at her and she remembers. This is the same Imperial official who just fucked her against a bookcase. He’s not what he appears, not with those clever eyes and mangled little smile. He’s much much more dangerous and she’s not afraid of him.

“Tell him nothing. There’s nothing more I have to say to him.”

They stare at each other, two very strong wills recognising each other now that the heat of lust has dissipated.

“May I go now?” she asks pointedly, putting her hand back on the doorknob. “Or do you have something else you want to say?”

He grins, charming and weirdly boyish. She looks at the cut in his lip bleeding afresh, oddly fond of it now as he licks it clean. “Just one thing,” he says. “If you’re at some point where you need passage or clearance, whatever, some sort of difficulty, mention you’re there on behalf of the Director. And everything will be all right.”

She regards him with some cynicism. “The Director.”

The Director of the Imperial Army is almost a myth, so distantly high up in the bureaucratic ranks of the Empire she’s never seen pictures or holovids or even had cause to consider who the fuck it could possibly be. As she looks again at his insignia, this man in the cape and white uniform inclines his head and says with a certain degree of mischief: “Director Orson Krennic. It’s a good name to drop in need.”

Jyn stares at him, not knowing whether to be touched or suspicious. “Right,” she says eventually and leaves. The door shut behind her, she moves rapidly down the corridor, towards the staff quarters where she’ll grab her coat and vanish back into the city. She’ll sell the kewpie doll, take the money and persuade Sarua to run away with her, far far away from the central planets and the reach of the Empire, right out to the Unknown Regions where no one’s ever heard of Galen Erso or stupid fucking Death Stars. Where Sarua can help traumatised kids and Jyn can fix speeders or something. Maybe they could open that little school, a refuge for the orphans and the runaways.

She knows exactly what she wants, and it’s none of this.

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**Author's Note:**

> If Sarua seems familiar to you, it’s because hollyhark gave me lovely permission to use [Moa from her Children Wake Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6053959/chapters/15297685) series. I reckon Sarua is like Moa’s ancestor. And thank you, Holly, you constant inspiration you!
> 
> Now with seriously NSFW fanart by [panda-capuccino](http://panda-capuccino.tumblr.com/post/147368840587/jynnic-soooo-the-lovely-panda-capuccino-was) commissioned by that lil devil [obikink/jynnic](http://jynnic.tumblr.com/post/147368250819/soooo-the-lovely-panda-capuccino-was-nice-enough%22)! You guuuuyyyyssss! I don't know whether to be flattered or mortified -- flortified? -- to have something I wrote inspire such beautifully detailed filth.


End file.
